Playing Purrtend
by cowboyEmpiricist
Summary: A short history of Vriska and Nepeta's relationship, seen through the eyes of the former. Contains a little pale Vriska/Nepeta, a bit of violence and language, and excessive use of second person perspective.


** Be the huge bitch.**

You cannot do it. You cannot be the huge bitch.

There's a girl curled up on your sofa now, sobbing into her little blue kitty hood. It's not your blue, it's her moirail's blue. But it's not even that, it's the pelt of some beast, skinned from its bloody corpse by the very same girl. The way she wears it, though, with her constant stupid smile, what used to be the beast's jaw snugly wrapped around her ruffled, uncombed hair, you never could have guessed getting that fur nearly killed her. You raise your hand, your mouth opens, ever so slightly. You want to explain. She doesn't even look at you. She swallows a whimper, pale green saline soaking in the dark blue pelt.

It's four days ago, and arsenicCatnip is replying with purrked interest to your latest victory post. She's never heard of FLARP. What a fun purrtend game, she thinks. Damn girl loves to purrtend. You can't tell where her character ends and the troll begins, and you're not sure she does either. You glance at your crayon drawing of the Marquise and you're not sure you do. You play and you chat and they're more or less the same, until the first rays of the sun start to shine through the canyons. Your farewells are brief, like old friends who know they'll meet again. Tomorrow, with any luck. The recuperacoon envelops you, your racing thoughts (_Did I come on too strong? I didn't seem flushed, did I? Was I too heavy on the 8's?) _slowing and slodging in the cool slime, and at the threshold of sleep one remains. _Friend?_

It's three days ago, and you're tromping up the stairs, clothes stained with blood, red and yellow and green and blue. Lots of blue. One hand is soaked in the blue, holding the hole in your shirt and your abdomen shut. The other hand has eight tiny diamonds branded in the palm, clenched down hard around your partners in crime. You slump against the wall, panting, glancing out the window. Your beloved lusus is still digesting today's catch. Good for her. You haven't eaten all day. Too busy playing.

You nurse your wound and fill your stomach, your computer incessantly blinking the whole time. Purple and teal and pink and green. The seadw(_wwwwwww_)ellers thanking you, for feeding lusii to the lusus and your teammate giggling and high fiving your absent self and making faces and getting bored and leaving. And the girl, leaving vari8ions on ":33 are you there?" all day.

"Yes."

Her moirail won't let her play FLARP, even after she spent all day making the purrfect character. You take the offensive - why does she let him boss her around like that? She retaliates - she's passionate, very passionate, about everything, especially passion. She gives the impression that she's constantly analyzing and evaluating the relationships and social lives of everyone around her. And maybe just a little lonely. Probably from living in a cave.

Doesn't matter, you say. She should come over sometime. You have lots of gaaaaaaaames you both can play.

":33"

It's two days ago, or is it one? They pass in a flash. You have your partners working double overtime with you. The legisclerator condemns the guilty with her cane. She may be the judge and the jury, but you are the executioner. It's you. It's later. You stand on the bow of your ship, wind whipping out your coat, as a blue blade splits the other team's hull in half, red and yellow and green billowing in the water, the seabeast neighing furiously as its rider forces the survivors up the gangplank. Normally, you would personally feed them to her, but there's plenty to spare and you just bind them all down. She's a big girl, she can live for a day or two without getting spoonfed like a wriggler and if she can't and she dies you'll personally cull her back to life.

It's earlier today, and Nepeta Leijon looks exactly like you pictured she did. You're not sure if that surprises you or not. She's thinking the same thing (you idly wonder if reading her mind is rude), but then again your drawing of Marquise is your avatar. You smile. For once, it's not a grin. You just purrrrrrrrk your lips. It's been so long since you've had a vacation. You idly wonder if you ever have.

You play Labyrinths and Leviathans, and she matches your dungeons point for point, even if she does stop after every grief to talk with herself, with a different voice for every character. You play Cullhammer, and she sees your pincer manuever coming from a mile away. You drop the rules and just play silly purrtend. It is incredibly silly. You watch a trashy romantic comedy you stole from a friend's house, and mock it the whole way through. And after she's all tuckpurred out (_all right, she says, I was trying a little too hard on that one, she laughs_) she makes a pile of your books and your clothes while you're in the other room and curls up on it. She pats the spot next to her with her silly, not real tail and beckons you over.

She nuzzles up against you, your bodies forming a groove in your jackets and pants and a blue-stained black shirt with a hole in the middle. You talk, about your characters and your campaigns, and your friends and their stupid hobbies. She talks about her lusus, you dodge the subject. She assures you her lusus is incredibly adorable, as she wonders where yours is. The air hangs silent for a moment.

":33 *nepeta gently purrds the sl33py spidergirl with her wet nose*"

"*The Marquise 8links, yawning and stretching, arching her 8ack in the clothespile.* Yeeeeeeees?"

":33 *nepeta asks whats wrong, vriska? you got all quiet!*"

"That's...all I have to say right now, I guess."

":33 *nepeta crinkles her nose and looks a little crestfallen*"

":33 if you say so vriska but if you change your mind im right here."

":33 thats what friends are fur right?""

"...r8."

In a few moments, you're going to fall asleep. She won't, and she'll be curious. She'll look through your things, and wonder why your dice swung a sword at her when she rolled them. She'll peek through a FLARP book, and wonder why it talks so much about combat, but there aren't any rules for it. And then, she'll look out the window, and see the spoils of your victory in mid-digestion.

But it was worth it.


End file.
